Broken Doll Dragon Age: Asunder contest entry
by Freckles04
Summary: Darkspawn attack Ser Aaren and his charge. As they recover, the mage and templar have an opportunity to share their points of view regarding their brethren and the Chantry, but Maker knows if either is willing to change their mind.


_Sword thrust. Shield bash. Parry. Slice._

Ser Aaren blinked sweat away. His sword danced. His shield partnered it. Each step of his feet followed a prescribed path: practiced, precise, perfect. He had no time to contemplate the horrid visage of the monsters he cut down; no time to wonder where they'd come from, nearly a decade after the Blight. No time to glance at his charge, instead trusting the continued cold bursts to indicate she still lived.

_Sword thrust. Shield bash. Parry—_

The genlock's blade sank into his side. Aaren grunted but forced himself to ignore the instinct to stagger away, to seek safety. _A façade._ There was no safety.

His blade sliced the beast's neck and ended its premature victory. Ichor splashed against his shield, squirting into his eyes. He shook his head, blinking again, and focused beyond the irritation to meet the next opponent.

None greeted him.

Darkspawn corpses littered the clearing, three of which he'd dispatched. The frost speckling the other corpses illustrated the source of their death well enough: his charge. The beasts' black, rotten blood stained the ground. Grass, once green and welcoming, now sat charred and withered and...wrong. So very wrong. They needed to move.

Aaren tore his eyes away from the blighted mess, seeking the elven mage. A grunt edged past his lips as he shifted, staggered, and righted himself. He remained (mostly) upright and mobile; his wound could be addressed later. Now, he needed to find his charge. His eyes narrowed as they swept the clearing. Had she escaped in the chaos of the battle?

"Ennis!" Her name left him without thought, his voice harsh and demanding.

"Damn it."

He turned toward the soft words and finally spotted a slight, purple-robed form at the edge of the clearing, crumpled, like a discarded cloth.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn it!"

The steady stream of curses, her twisted features and all-but glazed eyes told him much. She'd been injured, though if she were still aware enough to mutter oaths, Aaren thought it could not be serious. She squirmed, as if trying to escape the pain, and he held out a hand to calm her.

"Moving will only make it worse," he advised as he knelt beside her, his tone calmer than it had been.

"Son of a—" The elf whimpered, her expression losing some of its fire. White teeth flashed against pink flesh, biting her lip hard enough that he worried she'd cleave clean through. "Flames, it hurts. My leg, it's my damned leg."

Grimacing, Aaren lifted the hem of her robe. A curse drifted to his lips as he saw the wound, but he did not voice it. "It's not that bad," he said instead. _Maker, forgive my lie._ "I'll get one of the poultices in my pack, and when the pain ebbs enough for you to heal it yourself, you'll—"

Laughter, light but sharply edged, cut him off. Her blue eyes closed, her head shook as it fell back. "Please tell me you have one of those super poultices, or superior poultices...or whatever the flames they're called."

"No. Minor only." Aaren's gaze drifted back to the wound. The deep, long gash in her thigh continued to ooze, blood soaking into the robes bunched beneath her.

"Flames. _Flames_." Her head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut. Tears slipped past her lids.

His breath caught as he realized why the mage would be so upset. "You have no healing spells, do you?"

Jaw tight, Ennis shook her head, her eyes still closed. "None," she gasped. "Never...never quite figured—" Her teeth chattered, shearing away her words.

Aaren lurched into motion. His body protested, having enjoyed being still for a few moments, but years of not giving into such base wants and needs had trained him to keep his focus, to keep moving, even when he would rather flop to the ground beside his charge. She needed the poultices. Even minor ones would help; one would stop the bleeding, two would close the wound, three to knit the bone back together, a fourth to get Ennis on her feet again, if limping, so they could return to the Tower. Each potion would need time to work, and in the interim, he needed to make sure she did not succumb to shock.

_Poultices. Blanket._ He had both in his pack—wherever his pack had ended up. He swung his gaze about the clearing, then stopped and shook his head as the ground dipped. _Focus, Aaren._ He inhaled shallowly, trying not to aggravate his own wound.

"Y-you're b-bleeding."

He glanced down at the elf, noting how pale and fragile she seemed. His sister had played with a doll once, long ago, with white porcelain arms and face, the eyes big and blue, far larger than a human's should have been, and hair like the silk of corn stalks. There'd been a crack in one cheek, but it hadn't stopped Maeve from loving the flawed thing. Aaren blinked, wondering where the thought had come from, the randomness of it. Ennis was no doll. _Too dangerous._

"You're bleeding too," he pointed out. "Mine is nothing."

Finally spotting the pack amongst the corpses, Aaren strode over to it, refusing to admit his pace was more of a stagger. He pulled it out from beneath a genlock's arm, his face screwing up in distaste as the smell of the creature drifted upward. It served to remind him that he could not rest.

Tasks unfurled before him, his organized mind cataloguing what needed to be done. Poultices and blanket for Ennis. Poultice for himself. Set a campfire. Drag the corpses away and burn them. The weight of the list almost thrust him to the ground, simple tasks that seemed insurmountable.

He knelt beside Ennis again, a soft grunt expelled from his lips, and draped the blanket over her. Next, he retrieved one of the poultices, and lifted her up so she could drink it. She groaned, and though her eyes were open, they did not focus on him. She gasped as the poultice took effect, a grimace twisting her features, and Aaren empathized. He'd felt the cool brush of a healing tonic more than once, the intensity that edged on pain even as it dulled the agony of a wound.

"Better?" He lowered her to the ground and pulled his gauntleted hand away carefully, not wanting to add to her discomfort by pulling on her long, light brown hair.

She focused on him, hesitated, then gave a tight nod, her lips pursed.

"I'll give you another soon," he stated. "Let that one take effect, give your body time to acclimatize."

"R-right." A humorless bark of laughter, soft and derisive, left her lips. "When I get back to the Circle, I'm studying healing again."

Aaren snorted, then downed a poultice of his own. He gritted his teeth as the magic wove through his flesh, knitting it back together. He despised the feeling, always had. Unnatural, like all magic. No one should be able to bend reality to their will, not even for healing.

"Need to make a fire," he said, but did not move. Lassitude gripped his limbs.

"T-take a minute." A long-fingered, pale hand appeared on his arm, a contrast against the steel. "I won't tell."

A minute. Yes, he could take a minute. No more, though. Aaren settled back on his elbow, tension flowing from him like water. His eyelids drooped. _Just a minute._

"It isn't like w-we're going anywhere," Ennis continued. Teeth worried at her lip again. "Unless…well, you should really go back to the T-Tower, I suppose. Or the village we were heading to. I won't be studying their artifact, will I?" She snorted humorlessly, then her brow furrowed. "Which is closer?"

"The village," Aaren answered absently. "And no. My duty is to escort you. I cannot leave you here."

"I can take care—"

"No." Aaren met Ennis's oversized blue eyes, held them. "You are my charge."

Understanding bloomed in the azure depths. "You're worried I'll run. Flames, do you honestly think—" She broke off, shaking her head. "I'm Aequitarian. Even if I could actually _move_, I'm in no rush to leave the Circle. It has its place. It's _needed_."

Aaren grunted. "And if an apostate-friendly hunter came along while I was gone and offered to help you live free, you would, of course, turn him or her down."

Ennis opened her mouth, then closed it, her expressive eyes saying everything she did not. Aaren saw the uncertainty she felt, the weighing of options. Then her full lips thinned, her eyes narrowed.

"Since that is an unlikely scenario—"

"Granted." Aaren inclined his head. "It's more likely that you would accidentally kill the hunter."

"I am not stupid, Ser Aaren." A grimace chased her words, her eyes clouding, but she refocused on him and continued. "The most likely scenario is that I would ask the hunter to escort me to the Tower."

Aaren shook his head. Ennis might like to think she would do so, but he knew mages—better than they knew themselves, apparently. They all thirsted for freedom. And why shouldn't they? Caged for the entirety of their lives, except for short excursions such as this, they could not be blamed for longing for more, for longing for freedom. Given the opportunity, all but the most fearful would leap at it. And Ennis had just faced a party of darkspawn; she'd proven she was far from fearful.

Shrugging off the lethargy that threatened to draw him into sleep, Aaren pushed upward, gaining his feet. He stretched his side, then grunted, satisfied the poultice had worked well enough. "I will build the fire and dispose of the corpses," he announced. "Rest." Not willing to entertain further discussion, he turned away and set to work.

Later, much later, he allowed himself to settle again beside the fire. Darkness had descended, though the campfire and the remains of the pyre on the other side of the clearing warded it away. The gentle breeze carried the scent of the burning creatures away from them, which was more than Aaren had hoped for; he was thankful for it nonetheless. Ennis's wide eyes reflected the light of the campfire, making it seem as though the dancing sparks lived within her gaze. Fatigue dragged at his limbs, but Aaren did not allow himself to sleep. He trusted that the fire would keep animals away, but it might attract bandits; and he needed to watch Ennis, as well. He wondered why Ennis had not drifted into slumber. Perhaps she awaited the next poultice, dreading it and hoping for it all the same.

He shifted, cautiously stretching his side; the mostly healed wound felt tight and hot, uncomfortable. He'd worked it hard, too hard, probably. For a moment, he wished he could remove his armor and allow the light wind to chill his skin, but no. He needed to be prepared.

"Will they come seeking us? Other templars?"

Aaren frowned at the elf, wondering at the direction of her thoughts. "You should be able to walk by tomorrow. With help," he assured her. "Then we'll start for the Tower."

"Should be able," she echoed with a snort.

"Yes."

"And if I'm not?"

"Are you always so negative?" He stretched his side again. The wound did not feel…right.

"Do you always avoid questions?"

"No." His superiors would not tolerate it, but he did not feel the need to share that. "Are you ready for another poultice?" Not waiting for an answer, he rose to his feet.

Darkness swallowed him. Dimly, he heard Ennis call out; part of him registered the impact with the ground, the sound of his armor, his body, crashing against the hard-packed soil. Sound and sight faded, then trickled back as he lay still, face-first in the dirt. Perhaps the wound had been worse than he'd thought. Perhaps he'd lost more blood…

_No, that is not it._

"Damn, damn it." Hands grasped him, pushed, pulled, tugged, trying to turn him over. He did not resist, rolling onto his back with a sigh.

"You…should not be moving." His thick tongue did not want to form words properly.

"Right. I'm not the one who just fainted." Ennis shifted and he could see the light from the fire even through his closed lids. A soft gasp left her. "Oh…Maker…"

He blinked his eyes open, _knowing_. "The taint."

She nodded, biting her lip again. "I—I can see it in your…" She bit down harder. Her large eyes shared what she could not voice.

A humorless chuckle left him. "Perhaps I should write the Grey Wardens and tell them they did not do their job sufficiently, hm?" Heat flood his skin, pursued by cold, then heat again. He shuddered. "Maker's blood."

"There is still a poultice, right?" Ennis turned, starting toward the pack. "It will help, it has to help, it—"

"Mage." She paused, but did not look back at him. "Ennis. You know it won't."

Withdrawing his belt knife took more effort than it should have. His limbs did not want to listen to him, instead struggling under the thrall of the taint, the lies and evil overtaking his body. He could feel it now, progressing, stealing over him like a cloud's shadow robbing the warmth from a ray of sunlight.

"Ser Aaren…" Her eyes flicked to the knife and back to his eyes, uncertainty, concern, worry all easy to see despite the darkness.

Teeth gritted, he beckoned her forward. He kept his gaze on hers, convincing her without words that it was the right thing to do. Tears glistened in her eyes but did not fall; her lips thinned, whether from pain or emotion, he could not say. But she crawled toward him, her wounded leg uselessly dragging.

"Thank you," he said as she reached him. He tried to make his eyes as expressive as hers, to show his gratitude without words.

Then, using the last of his strength, he plunged the knife into her chest.

Her blue eyes widened, her mouth opened. Air rasped past her lips as she gazed down at her chest, at the hilt of the dagger, at the blood covering his hands and hers. When she looked back up, her mouth worked, but nothing but flecks of crimson emerged. Her eyes, those expressive, beautiful eyes, spoke again for her. He thought once more of his sister's doll. The broken thing. Unfixable.

"I have my duty," Aaren whispered.

Ennis finally collapsed beside him, the light in her eyes dimming. Her life's blood seeped into the soil, lapping against his armor.

"Draw your last breath, my friends," Aaren quoted. "Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand…" His voice faded. "And be Forgiven."

His eyes fell shut as the comfort of the Chant overtook him, and he waited.


End file.
